


Audible

by FinelyDressedSpacemen



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drug Use, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Sort Of, enough awkwardness to float a boat, in that order, sound kink, touch kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29871171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinelyDressedSpacemen/pseuds/FinelyDressedSpacemen
Summary: Arthur and Eames agree to test a new mix for Yusuf. The effects aren't quite as advertised.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	Audible

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack (or Highly Encouraged Audio Moodboard)
> 
> My Trigger- Miike Snow  
> Fade- Kanye West  
> Like Gold- Loud Luxury
> 
> Folks, this is some weird shit. It might be PwP despite not really being P. The M is pretty soft, but conservative. Enough letters, more story.

“Gentlemen, welcome to my humble laboratory,” Yusuf says, his arms spread wide. 

Yusuf’s lab is oddly colorful, clean, and filled with bright little bottles and beakers. It’s less frightening than his shop, and much brighter than the dream den. It’s hot in Mombasa. Somehow, it’s hotter in January than it was last July. Yusuf has something that passes for air conditioning, but Arthur has regrets about the suit he’s wearing. 

Arthur _never_ regrets his suits.

Eames is sucking on a lollipop he got from a street kid for ten euros. Arthur doesn’t stare. He listens to the quiet click of crystallized sugar against Eames’ teeth, and the occasional obscene _suck._

“Just what have you added to this blend?” Eames asks, scratching his beard. Arthur, again, doesn’t stare. Eames looks like he hasn’t shaved in a month. In reality, it’s probably only been since last Tuesday. Arthur thinks he can’t possibly be comfortable when Arthur is contemplating stripping down entirely just for relief from the heat. Then again, Eames just spent eight weeks in Fairbanks. 

“I won’t lie. A little bit of THC. Also some Methyl enedioxymethamphetamine,” Yusuf mumbles.

“Molly,” Arthur says, flatly. “You put Molly in the Somnacin.” He surrenders to the heat and shrugs his jacket off. 

“Good lord,” Eames breathes, bewildered. 

“There’s a reason I wanted you here to try it. For science.” Yusuf smiles as if this is entirely normal. 

“Were going to drop ecstasy. For science,” Arthur snips. 

“It should be a pleasant experiment,” Yusuf shrugs. 

“What’s the point of the drugs?” Arthur asks. 

“Better dreamscapes for club-themed extractions,” Eames jokes, shifting the lollipop from one side of his mouth to the other with an extravagant rattle. 

“My theory is the combination will further relax the subject, and open them up to suggestions. I’m not trying to make people drop their inhibitions so much as be too distracted to properly hide their secrets. What if the safe had no combination?”

“How do you manage that without affecting everyone involved?” Arthur asks. 

“Well, you don’t,” Yusuf agrees. “That’s why we need to test it.” Arthur catches Eames’ eye. The forger shrugs carefully. Arthur knows that look. _This is your call._

“If I wake up out of my mind, you’d better not let me out of this room,” Arthur grumbles. He rolls up his sleeve.

^~*~^

The room is dark— a charcoal void. Eames hasn’t furnished it and Arthur doesn’t want to try.

“Well, we should do something,” Eames says. 

“Can you forge?” Arthur asks. Obligingly, Eames shifts into an elderly man. He wanders around the void, gait shuffling. Arthur adds a few doors to nowhere, and solidifies a wall behind the grey fog. He drops a large safe in the center of the room. Despite his toying, he hears absolute silence.

There are no projections, and that doesn’t seem right at all. 

It’s a little embarrassing that he’s so distracted by _nothingness_ that he fully walks his knee into the safe. 

“FUCK!” He shouts. Eames is to him in an instant, and back in his real body.

“Are you alright?” He asks hurriedly. 

“Yeah,” Arthur moans. “Fuck, that felt like getting shot.”

Eames stares at the safe, considering. “Well, we’re here to experiment,” he says, and then he kicks the side of the safe. “Sweet fucking horseshit bugger FUCK!” he bellows. 

“I told you, idiot!” Arthur barks. 

“Did you fucking militarize the safe?!”

“This is _your dream!_ “ Arthur reminds him. 

“Fuck,” Eames breathes again. He runs his hands over his face. 

Wait. 

He feels the end of every single hair in his beard against his palms. They feel brittle, then something crackles. He feels a tiny, popping burst of air with each brush of his fingers. He glances up to find Arthur staring at him curiously. He looks crisp, neat. Too crisp. He looks like an overexposed photograph, the brightness too high. His shirt looks so ironed it might break. 

Eames reaches out and snaps off a piece from around Arthur’s stomach. 

“You broke my shirt,” Arthur mutters. 

“Something’s wrong,” Eames mumbles. 

“Eames,” Arthur says. Eames looks up. Arthur looks profoundly uneasy. “Your eyes are so fucking blue they’re almost green,” Arthur blurts. He’s sweating a little at the temples. Arthur touches a tentative hand to Eames’ shoulder. The older man sucks in a shocked breath. Eames swallows, feels the pulsing vibrations running from Arthur’s fingers through his shirt and into his skin. 

“Darling that doesn’t make any sense at all,” Eames chokes. The words wash over Arthur curiously, curling around his feet like a sleepy cat. Arthur feels heat. There’s heat fucking everywhere. Maybe it’s just the Mombasa weather amplified while he’s under. 

Oh. 

_Oh no._

It’s not that kind of heat. 

Arthur tries not to pant as a bead of sweat rolls down his spine. It’s not like he’s never thought of it. He’s got eyes. But oh fuck, he also has ears, and every word Eames drips out is like hot liquid on his skin. 

“Are you ok, Arthur?” 

No, Arthur is not ok. 

“I’m fine,” Arthur swallows. “Everything’s fine.” But his breath is coming in deep, heaving breaths, and he can feel the flush gathering around his collar. He pulls his hand away and takes a nervous step back. 

Something darkens visibly in Eames’ eyes. “Is that so, darling?” he breathes. At once his voice seems to be from everywhere—

Darling

Darling

> Darling

Darling

# DARLING

The waves of sound are overwhelming. Fucking forger. “Stop,” Arthur begs, and his voice breaks. “Eames, please,” he sobs. He feels fireworks running under his skin. There’s pressure low in his spine. He is dangerously close to breaking apart.

“Please what?” Eames purrs beside him, and Arthur has no idea when he moved so much closer. He only knows he wants to feel Eames’ voice on his skin.

“If you keep that up...” Arthur warns. 

Eames leans closer still, his mouth just beside the shell of Arthur’s left ear. “I don’t think you really want me to stop.” 

“Fuck it,” Arthur says. He reaches out both hands and drags his fingertips slowly up Eames sides, over the fabric of his shirt. Eames moans low in his throat, and his eyes roll back. Arthur hisses at the jolt he feels from the sound of it. Overwhelmed, Eames sags against him. The extra contact does him absolutely no good. 

Arthur breaks away and stubbornly tries to pull himself together. This is work. This is _Eames_. 

Eames doesn’t have the same concerns. “I think you could get off on the sound of my voice alone,” Eames purrs. 

Yeah. So does Arthur. 

Fine. 

“Put your money where your mouth is, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ll just keep myself busy until then.” He slips his long fingers around a button on Eames’ shirt and looses it with satisfying _pop._

“Sometimes I think about it, to be honest,” Eames says as Arthur undoes another button. “Sometimes I think about you in those suits— in those bloody waistcoats.” Arthur tugs the ends of Eames’ shirt from his trousers. He slips one finger around the waistband. “ _Fuck_ Arthur,” he moans. Arthur staggers back and braces himself against the cold, steel safe. He shifts uncomfortably. His previously perfectly tailored suit is suddenly entirely too tight. 

“That’s what I thought,” Eames says, advancing. “I don’t even have to touch you.” He leans into Arthur, bracing himself against the safe door. He is careful not to touch the slighter man. “Would you want that? Would you like for me to talk you through it, whisper promises into your ear until you can’t see straight?” And Arthur’s writhing beneath him, his control slipping. 

Darling

Darling

> Darling

Darling

# DARLING

Arthur grabs Eames’ collar and drags his pelvis into the other man’s groin. Eames yelps at the contact, abruptly just as close as Arthur. He pulls away, and Arthur, already addicted, follows. 

“This is a dream,” Eames says. His eyes are barely open. He drags a hand down the charcoal wall, fog sipping through his fingers. 

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, as he slides his palm across the plane of Eames’ stomach. Eames sags into the wall. 

“You have to— you have to—“ Eames chokes. He looks at the safe over his shoulder and vaguely gestures in its direction. 

The safe. Arthur nods. 

Eames keeps a hand on Arthur until he has no choice but to let go. The safe door is shut when Arthur approaches, but Yusuf was right. It’s unlocked. He pulls the handle and it creaks open. There’s only one thing inside— a photograph of Eames, his arms around a smiling Arthur. 

The idea in the photograph is more overwhelming than any sound could be. The photograph lights a fire in Arthur’s stomach. He wants to give Eames everything. Absolutely _everything._

At once, Arthur’s in front of him, desperately grabbing at Eames collar, and Eames is holding his hands aloft awkwardly, almost afraid. Eyes on the prize, Arthur dives in. In the exaggerated wasteland of Eames’ dream, it only takes one shocked pull at Arthur’s hair and one

slow

languorous

_pink_

_**lick.** _

They jolt awake to the sound Eames makes in real life when he’s ruining his pants.

^~*~^

In the harsh light of the lab, all they can do is look at each other, eyes wide, mouths open. Arthur wants to say something smart. Eames doesn’t want to say anything at all. The embarrassment is strong enough to take care of any physical evidence of Arthur’s feelings on what just happened before the door opens.

“Oh, you’re up sooner than expected,” Yusuf says, smiling cheerfully. “How did it go?”

“We’re not using that one in the field,” Eames says, tearing his eyes from Arthur’s. 

“Not ready for prime time,” Arthur agrees. 

“Shame,” Yusuf sighs. “That was one of my better ideas.”

“Come on,” Eames says, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. He disconnects himself from the PASIV and is walking toward the door before Yusuf can ask any more questions. “I’ll make dinner.”

Arthur is helpless not to follow.

^~*~^

Eames has never focused on a pot of curry so hard in his entire life. Arthur is positive of this, despite the fact that he’s never watched Eames cook before. He had immediately stormed into the kitchen and started banging around pots the second after he showered and changed.

“So—“ Arthur tries. 

“No,” Eames says. He continues stirring somewhat vigorously, occasionally leaning down to sniff and then adding additional spices. Arthur is fairly certain the dish is twenty percent chicken, ten percent yogurt, and seventy percent coriander at this point. Eames tips the lid on the rice pot and deems it sufficient. He moves to a cabinet to pull down plates.

“Can I—“

“No,” Eames says. He keeps moving. He heaps heavy portions of rice and curry on the plates and drops them unceremoniously on the table. He rattles in a drawer for forks and throws those down as well. Without looking, he directs Arthur to sit, and does so himself. 

Eames takes a deep breath. Arthur sits as still as possible. “Alright,” Eames says, swallowing thickly. “We may now discuss the fact that we somewhat accidentally got high and engaged in inappropriate behavior.”

“Inappropriate behavior,” Arthur repeats. 

“I am referring, Arthur, to the parts where I pinned you to a safe and tried to make you come in your pants and you actually succeeded by—“

“I know what you’re talking about.”

Eames drops his fork to the table with a clatter. “This curry is terrible.”

“Eames—“

“Arthur, I must apologize. There’s no excuse for my actions.” Arthur sets his fork down, abruptly angry.

“You think I want you to say you’re _sorry?_ “ Eames finally lifts his eyes to Arthur’s. He looks half devastated, and partly afraid. Arthur feels entirely wrong footed. “Do you want an apology from me?”

“No. You didn’t do anything I didn’t want— no, you don’t need to apologize.” 

Arthur, who has never wanted anything more than what was offered in that hallucination of a dream, decides to take a calculated risk. For science. 

“What’s the deal with the photograph?” he asks. 

“I’m not prepared to say anything more on that subject. Not right now. I never expected anything like that to be in the safe.”

“Well it kind of looked like you _like_ me,” Arthur says. 

“You are a pleasure to work with, Arthur, always. And I trust you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Arthur,” Eames begins, looking up again, plaintively. 

“I will say that I give two shits about you. That’s one more shit than I give about Cobb and two more than everybody else.” It’s practically a declaration of undying devotion and Eames knows it.

“I— yes. I _like_ you.”

Arthur awkwardly hops his chair a few inches closer to Eames. “And how did you feel about the general concept of what happened in the dream today?”

“I think that was fairly obvious, darling.”

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Ok,” Eames breathes. 

It’s better than the sensory assault of the dream. Arthur is gentle; he holds Eames’ face securely in both hands and brushes a thumb across his cheek. Eames brings a shaky hand to Arthur’s hair and hesitantly opens his mouth. Arthur licks in, equally tentative. He pulls back gently. “Alright?”

“Ok. Yeah. More than alright.”

Arthur kisses him again, like he’s always going to kiss him, like he’s never going to stop kissing him. 

“I’m never going to stop kissing you.”

Eames smiles against his mouth. “I can live with that.”


End file.
